


Dream of Better Lives the Kind Which Never Hates

by Sarcastic_CurlyFry



Series: 'My Dad is an Asshole' a Biography by Steve Harrington [4]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Good Parent Joyce Byers, Good Person Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, Parental Jim "Chief" Hopper, Protective Jim "Chief" Hopper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:11:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcastic_CurlyFry/pseuds/Sarcastic_CurlyFry
Summary: Steve doesn't have a great home life, not at all. So one night, when his dad decides to live up to the title of ‘Grade A Asshole’, Steve thinks that enough is enough and calls Hopper.Hopper is more than happy to help and Steve will soon find that the rest of Hawkins is too.





	1. What’s Done is Done

**Author's Note:**

> You might want to read the rest of the works in the “‘My Dad is an Asshole’ a Biography by Steve Harrington” series, it’s not necessary but it would be helpful for background and such.  
> Anyway, this first chapter is a little short just because I really wanted to get it out there so I won't give up on this story halfway through.  
> (And yes the end of this chapter is scarily similar to my other story “I Walk Along The Avenue” but just ignore that.)
> 
> All rights belong to Netflix and the Duffer brothers.  
> (Rated teen for swearing and some graphic-ish child abuse.)  
> Title of work comes from the song “I Melt With You” by Modern English  
> Title of chapter comes from the song "Nocturnal Me" by Echo & the Bunnymen

Steve sneaks into his house, concentrating all of his ninja like skill on getting his front door not to squeak upon opening. 

Steve didn't like sneaking out of his house, there was a lot of risk involved and he cringed at the thought of the backlash he might receive from his parents for the crime. Despite this, he had really wanted to hang out with Nancy and Jonathan but his parents had said no, so sneaking out it was. 

Steve decided, as he creeped along the polished wood floors of the extravagant home, that the worst part of sneaking out was sneaking back in. When you sneak back in it's harder to bolt if your parents see you, it always feels like you're trapped.

Slowly, he creeps up the staircase, arguably the hardest part to sneak through, and prays to any God listening that it doesn't squeak. Holding his breath, he steps off the stairs and onto the landing. Waiting five seconds to be safe, he lets out a deep sigh and begins walking toward his room.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Steve whips around to see his father standing behind him, he must have gotten there recently, Steve did just pass his parents door, maybe his dad heard him?

“Are you deaf!”

“No, no sir,” Steve stammers out anxiously.

“Then answer the damn question!”

“I was just getting a drink of water,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

“Bullshit!” His father roars taking a step closer.

“I'm not-”

His father wastes no time rushing towards him, grabbing Steve's wrist in a bruising grip.

“Don't lie to me Steve,” he whispers threateningly, making fierce eye contact.

“I snuck out, okay!”

The hand on his wrist grows tighter.

“To hang out with Lonnie’s kid and the Wheeler girl?”

“Maybe.” Steve spits out, leaning closer into his father's face.

Suddenly, Steve feels his feet slip out from under him, wind rushing past him as he feels himself falling. Everything becomes very slow around him, his ribcage hitting the stairs halfway down. He thumped to the ground, his wrist, tucked underneath him, hits at a strange angle causing immeasurable pain to spike through it. His head thumps against the wood floor harshly, leaving him dizzy and disoriented with the force of it. He lifts his head slightly to see his dad sneering at him from the top of the stairs.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” his father growls before heading backing into his room. 

As soon as his dad leaves his sight he drops his head back to the ground. He thinks he might be in some mild state of shock because everything seems strange and fuzzy, his body no longer his own. Forcing himself into a sitting position, the world spinning around him in quick circles, he wonders how he should proceed. God knows he can't stay in this hell hole of a home, so where does he go? 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath.

With slow breaths he forces himself to stand, he stumbles dramatically to the side, the whole world appearing tilted through his eyes.

“Okay, get your shit together Harrington,” he mutters under his breath, beginning his journey to the front door. 

He feels like he has two left feet as he stumbles along his darkened home. Reaching the door, he allows himself a moment of rest to lean up against it, his body hurts more and more with every step he takes, nausea rising in his throat.

He opens the door with his left hand, the hand not injured, and slowly creeps out into the frosted night.

Okay Steve, take a deep breath and think. He surely can't drive, with only one hand in use and his head spinning this bad, he would have a better chance of survival if he just walked back into his house.

So next option; call someone.

There is a phone booth outside the grocery store about a block or two down. He has his wallet in his back pocket and it contains enough money to make a couple calls. 

With this in mind, he begins to limp his way down the sidewalk. His feet walk without him having to think, taking a route he has driven many a time. He knows that he probably looks incredibly drunk as he weaves in jagged lines across the pavement but he can’t find it within himself to care.

The store parking lot is only a few feet away when he has to stop. He tries to regulate his breathing, willing the black spots out of his vision and the nausea back down his throat. With a deep, shuddering breath, he stumbles down the small hill and across the lot. He almost cries when he reaches the booth, almost.

With a shaking hand he pulls open the freezing glass door and hurries himself inside.

As he reaches for his coins he ponders who he should call.

Jonathan, Nancy, Joyce, or Hopper?

Well Jonathan and Joyce were one in the same and he didn't really want to trouble their family after all the shit with Will.  
He couldn't really call Nancy, they had just broken up and having to call her for help would wound his pride. Not that he doesn't like Nancy, he does, he loves her in fact, but he just couldn't bring himself to call her.

So Hopper it was.

With a numb, frozen hand, he slots the coins into the phone and picks it up gently, resting it between his ear and shoulder. Summoning the number from memory, he dials quickly, his hand trembles with every key he touches. Finally, the number is called, he listens to the dial tone impatiently and anxiously, begging the chief to pick up the phone.

“Who the hell is calling this late?” 

Oh thank God.

“He-y th-ere chi-ef,” Steve chatters out, his body shivering intensely with the cold.

“Steve?”

He smiles to himself softly, “The one and only.”

“Jesus kid, whats wrong?”

Steve is suddenly very tired, the world beginning to blur around him in feathery shapes. 

“God dammit, Steve!”

Oh shit, he never did respond to Hopper he thinks vaguely. 

“I ne-ed help.”


	2. No One Wants to be Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper takes Steve back to his place to get patched up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This only took forever and for that I am sorry, I won't make any excuses for that.  
> I will try my hardest to make updates more speedy quick but I'm a procrastinator so don't expect too much.  
> All rights belong to Netflix and the Duffer brothers.  
> Title of chapter from "Beat It" by Michael Jackson. (If you didn't already know, I've been naming all my Stranger Things fan fiction after lyrics from different 80s songs, just thought I should point that out.)  
> Also, I recommend listening to the song Great American Novel by Max Jury as it is a work of art.  
> Haven't proof read this so I hope it isn't too terrible.

After Steve mutters out his location to Hopper, the kid slides down the walls of the payphone booth and rests his upon the glass. He knows, logically speaking, that you're not supposed to go to sleep with a concussion but he was just so tired.

Steve wasn't aware that he'd closed his eyes, but he was sure he must've, or else how did Hopper get so close to him without his knowledge. At least, he hopes that’s Hopper, his eyes are a little more than fuzzy and his vision may or may not be doubling. 

“Hey kid, you with me?” 

The gruff voice of Hopper registers in his muddled mind.

“Mm, yeah just uh, just resting my eyes,” Steve slurs, trying to force himself into a more upright position.

A steady, gentle hand rests carefully on Steve’s shoulder, providing a presence to ground him to reality. 

“Hey kid, just take it easy, okay?” 

“You got it chief,” The kid whispers in a slurred chuckle of sorts. 

“I’m going to use the phone to call an ambulance, don’t go an-”

“No wait,” Steve jerks from whatever drifting slumber he’d managed.

“What is it kid?” 

“You can’t, I’m fine I swear,” The young man waves painfully bruised hands in some semblance of showing that he was okay, though the gesture only served to make Hopper more sure of his actions. 

“Kid, you can’t even stand.” 

“I can, really,” pushing himself up the frosty glass pane of the payphone booth, Steve sways on shaky legs, head spinning and breaths coming in labored waves.

“Jesus,” Hopper moves quickly, supporting Steve, slinging the kids arm over his shoulder.

“Sorry, just a, just a lil’ dizzy is all.”

“Shit, okay kid, no hospital,” Hopper rubs his temples, in a feeble attempt to force a solution into his head. 

“Dammit, we’ll just go to my house then,” The police chief grunts, slowly beginning to help Steve limp his way to the car.

“‘Knew you’d come ‘round,” Steve smirks blearily through the pain. 

Hopper manages to awkwardly open the door to his beat up Chevrolet Blazer, using his knee as make-shift door stop. 

“Okay, you little shit, let’s get you in the car.”

Steve nods, shifting the world up and down, morphing it into something strangely unrecognizable. 

“1, 2, 3,” Hopper hefts him up into the seat, pain vibrates through his ribcage, as if a fire were being set in his bones. 

“Shit, shit, shit, fuck!” 

“Woah, hey it’s okay,” Hopper panics at the sounds of pain coming from the kid, placing a hesitant but steady hand on Steve’s back, rubbing gentle circles into the fabric of his jacket. 

Steve's breaths are coming shallow and quick, the boy hissing sharply with every aching inhale, digging fingernails tightly into palms of hands. 

“Deep breaths, in 1, 2, 3. Out 1, 2, 3.” Hopper narrates softly, ignoring the painful memories bouncing inside his brain, choosing instead to focus on the child in front of him. 

“Sorry,” Steve breathes out shallowly, his voice shaky and hoarse, the word coming out as barely a whisper. 

“I don’t accept apologies kid.” 

Hopper sits there for another couple minutes until Steve’s breathing slows down to a semi-normal rate.

“I’m going to start driving, yeah?”

Steve smirks at him, in a mock version of a shit eating grin, “Yeah.” 

Hopper quickly shuffles into his car, turning the keys and starting the engine, wasting no time turning up the heater. 

In nearly no time at all, the strange pair is out on the road, Hopper may or may not be speeding, in some strange mockery of the law. 

Steve watches through half closed, bleary eyes as roads and trees wash over him in a fast blur. The chief was going on some strange route Steve had never been down, even in all his years of living in the small town, though Steve couldn’t find it within himself to care, as long as he was far away from his dad nothing mattered. 

The car stops in what appears to be the middle of nowhere, save for the rundown house in the middle of the clearing. 

“We’re here,” Hopper says, taking the key from the ignition and opening the driver’s side door in one, fluid, motion. 

Steve watches groggily as the chief makes his way to the passenger side door, opening it carefully.

“Okay here we go kid,” Hopper, once again, resumes his position in order to support Steve’s weight. 

“Up in 1, 2, and 3!”

The two men stagger upward, listing dangerously but managing to avoid capsizing. Steve hisses in pain but soldiers forward, gritting his teeth through the searing pain. Hopper closes the car door with awkwardly angled kick, then the two begin to hobble toward the dingy home. The stairs are a chore but the two manage the obstacle as well as one would be able too under the strange circumstances. 

Hopper knocks carefully upon the door in some code, two knocks, one knock, three knocks. 

The two wait with baited breath, staring intently at the closed door. Suddenly, the creaking door swings open to reveal none other than Eleven standing in the doorway. Her chocolate colored curls hang messily in her face, flannel and worn down overalls appear oversized on her small frame. She has her scarily calm expression painted over her face, with maybe a small hint of worry in dark brown eyes. 

“You’re back.” 

Hopper lets out a small laugh, “You’re right,” he says, moving his way into the living room, Steve leaning on him heavily. 

The chief gently rests Steve upon a threadbare couch, covered in a disgustingly floral pattern. 

“Is he okay?” El asks, little inflection in her voice. 

“No, but the idiot won't get medical attention.” 

“Not an idiot,” Steve slurs, cracking an eye open. 

“El, would you mind getting me the first-aid kit?” Hopper asks softly, shifting his gaze toward his adopted daughter. 

Eleven wastes no time, leaving with only a quick nod.

“Okay, shirt off Harrington.” The chief commands, reaching for the kids’ jacket. 

“Not even buying me dinner first?” The quip slips out of Steve’s hoarse throat easily. 

“Very funny,” Hopper continues stripping Steve of his shirt and jacket, making quick work of the fabric. 

Hopper hisses in sympathy at the sight of the kid's battered ribs, a few abrasions littering the swollen area. 

Looking down, Steve quickly and concisely sums up the damages by saying, “that looks bad.” 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

It is then that El makes her entrance back into the room, arms full of medical supplies and a beaten up First-Aid kit. The girls quickly moves toward the coffee table, located near the couch, and dumps the supplies upon it gracelessly. 

“Thanks kid,” Hopper says, nodding towards her while rummaging through the new found medical equipment.

“Can I help,” El asks, soft voice cutting neatly through the silent room.

“Yeah kid, greatly appreciated.”

Hopper grabs a cotton pad off the table and douses it in alcohol, the liquid sloshing on the table and dripping onto the floor.

“Can you hold this?” Hopper requests, holding the bottle of putrid liquid out to her.

So takes it without comment and commits herself to fading into the background, knowing there is no need for any form of conversation. 

With practiced carelessness, Hopper rubs the wounds with the alcohol swab, the action making Steve hiss sharply in discomfort. 

“Can you get me the cloth roll of bandages?” Hopper inquirers whilst throwing the used alcohol swab into a nearby trashcan. 

El follows the command quickly, handing the role to him nearly as it was asked.

“Thanks kid,” the chief mutters under his breath as he begins the wrapping process. 

Steve hisses in pain as the bandages settle snugly over his battered ribs.

“I really think you should consider going to the hospital, Harrington.” Hopper grits out the sentence while ripping the bandage wrap with his teeth and tucking the loose end into the wrap itself.

“Can't,” The kid mutters, his head lolling in a sad attempt to make any form of eye contact.

“And why's that, sport,” Hopper’s tone is bathed in sarcasm, the annoyance in it practically dripping. 

“People’ll find out.” 

With a tired sigh, the gruff sheriff snags some more alcohol swabs and gets the work on the wound the rests in Steve's hairline. 

“At this point, I'm beginning to think that may be for the best.”

After Hopper has done as much as he can for the wounds, he packs up the medical supplies strewn across the table, El helping him clean the mess willingly.

Arms full, the strange pair make their way toward the bathroom.

“What happened to him,” El asks in her trademark monotone voice, beginning to put things away in cabinets.

“His dad isn't a very good man.” 

The girl looks at him for more, “a mouthbreather?”

Hopper chuckles softly, “yeah, a mouthbreather.”


End file.
